Palmer's Kiss
by Kristi
Summary: CABIN PRESSURE Sensuality in ordinary life: a fic about being turned on by the one you're with. While baking. Martin/Douglas


"My grandfather taught me to make them. It's an old, Polish recipe."

Martin set his bag down in the hall, toed off his shoes, and padded over to Douglas, one arm going around his waist to watch him work. He stood barefoot in jeans, shirt tails rucked about his waist, sleeves rolled up his forearms. The warmth in the kitchen wrapped around Martin like home after walking through the icy flat; Douglas liked winter to feel like winter, even in his smooth, modern building. The faint smell of kerosene wafted from the efficient, expensive Japanese heater under the table. Like a kotatsu, it would warm their toes over tea.

Ingredients were laid out over the worktop: eggs, softening butter, sour cream, jars of real preserves; gleaming hardware under the overhead lights. Martin rested his chin on Douglas' shoulder. He watched him measure tablespoons of baking soda and salt into a bowl off flour and fold the mixture together with loose, clean fingers. Then, he scooped cups of into a tarnished one-handed sifter. It made terrible broken gate door protests as Douglas' large hands squeezed the handle and spring trigger, even as his left hand coaxed the snowfall into a cloudy pile.

"I thought modern flour was pre-sifted," Martin said.

"Not for pastry," Douglas said. "Don't you ever bake things?"

Martin stuck his fingers under the white cascade and watched the buildup form lines. He couldn't feel it at all. "Only the frozen dough, sometimes, when it's on sale. Although I like it uncooked in ice cream."

Douglas snorted. "Would you like me to teach you?"

Martin reached for the kettle. "Not really. Sorry, but - I'd rather watch you."

Martin set out two mugs beside the mixing bowl, and dug up the stereo remote from under a pile of mail. He had to dig his thumb into the rubber button painfully, the batteries were dying. A fine dusting of flour coated the envelopes. If it wouldn't snow all winter in Fitton, he could brush the flour into the sink and watch a film of white coat the stainless steel bottom. The paper, doused in grains, felt like living flesh under his fingers. Even brushed of powder, the texture remained eerily silky.

When Douglas finished building up a little dust pile of dry baking ingredients, he stuck his index and middle fingers into the center and swirled them to create a divot. Martin wished he'd filmed that gesture. Douglas plucked a delicate pink-hued custard dish from a top shelf, from the set Martin knew were semi-valuable relics from the 50's. Douglas' thumb errantly ran over the scalloped edge of the dish, his finger tracing the etched bands; Martin didn't think he was aware he did it.

"I always muck up separating eggs," Douglas admitted. "Large hands."

"Mm," was all Martin could say.

Three of the white, porcelain-clean things were going into the white volcano on the center of the board. Douglas held the first gingerly in his fingertips and rapped it on the work top. A fissure smiled across the exact middle. He held the broken, leaking egg over the custard dish and pried it with two thumbnails. He tilted his right arm awkwardly, bare elbow pointing for the sky like a violinist having trouble with a high E. The clear egg white coated his fingers and ran into the custard dish. The shell in his left captured the yellow. He tipped it into the center of the volcano with a soft plume of flour.

"Well done," Martin said.

"First time's the charm," Douglas eyed up the offending remaining eggs.

The second went as perfectly as the first.

Martin stirred his tea. Added sugar and milk to Douglas'. The devil was in the third egg.

Perhaps Douglas held it too hard and too high into the crease of his fingers. Perhaps he thrust his thumbs too forcefully into the uneven crack. But rather than a neat fissure, there formed a jagged, soft impact crag held together by the inner membrane. The yolk broke in his hand. His fingers worked quickly, bailing out shards as he held the yolk as delicately in his palm as if it was a human infant, even as brilliant vermillion wrapped a line around his wrist. Martin helpfully pulled away the larger shell halves and tossed them into the sink. At last, Douglas coaxed the yellow ooze into the flour mixture with a firm finger dragged over his skin.

"Any egg separating you can walk away from?" Martin said, munching a carrot stick. He would eat his dinner this way, since he missed the meal Douglas made earlier; standing in the kitchen, grazing like a rabbit. He still couldn't get his head around _proper mealtimes._

"Luckily no one has need to reuse the shell."

Douglas began gently reshaping the flour like a potter, nudging its sides in with cupped hands. He showed far more patience than Martin had in the kitchen; he'd have thrown it in a bowl and had at it with a mixer.

"No, no, you can't overwork pastry," Douglas admonished, "unless you want rubber tire pancakes and Arthur scones."

"Was Granddad in Poland during the war?" Martin asked, more interested in Douglas than dough.

"Yes."

"Was he Jewish?"

Douglas shook his head. "We are not Jewish, we have no hideous stories. The war was very difficult in Poland for everyone. It was war, after all. But, as Granddad wisely said," he looked up and smiled, "'we're still here.'"

"He sounds like an interesting man."

"He was." Douglas pressed the dough into a flat, crumbly mess on the board. "Right. Ah, hand me that bowl?" He pointed to the unappealingly soft-looking butter and sour cream.

Martin hipped off from the work top and passed it over. On his way back to being indelibly installed in the crook of the kitchen, Martin snagged the Nutella from the island, where he'd abandoned it after breakfast. He plucked an apple from the basket on the island. He plunged the short blade of the paring knife into the fruit and dragged it slowly, inexorably, towards his thumb. When the bit of apple sectioned off, he snagged it between his teeth. And crunched.

Douglas wasn't paying attention. He had a pastry cutter tucked into the palm of his hand and was cutting the dairy solids into the crumbly flour mixture.

"And the other side of your family?" Martin swiftly cut the apple into slices.

"I've told you." Douglas rolled the dough up from the board and gave it a quarter turn. He resumed cutting. "My dad flew a fighter jet in Korea and the Suez Canal. Used to fancy it heroic, in a horrible sort of way, I suppose."

Martin dangled a slice of apple from his fingertips deep into the jar of Nutella. There wasn't much left.

Douglas set the cutter in the sink and began to work the dough with his palms. He reached into the bag of flour and scooped his fingers deep, grabbing a handful of cool powder to sprinkle over the dough and the board. He flipped the still sticky ball and smoothed the flour over the flat side like it was a living thing to be petted. He pulled his fingers up like landing equipment and dug in his palms. Martin watched his corded tendons and the tense muscles in his lover's forearms. He turned the dough, folded it, sprinkled more flour from between his fingers, and did it again. And again.

"Do you want some?"

Douglas looked up. Martin's hand hovered in space above the work top. His hand was utterly streaked in Nutella and dripped with apple juice. A daub of the sticky stuff was at the corner of his mouth, too. He bit that lip, blushing to the hem of his sweatshirt.

"It's all over my hands, anyway, and yours are busy."

Douglas looked his boyfriend over, from the stocking toes folded over one another, to the faint erection poking out the front of his work trousers, to the mischievous look in his wide, dilated eyes.

"I fear I may have missed something," Douglas said.

"S-sorry, nevermind." Martin retracted the finger to his own lips.

Douglas' hand lashed out and snagged it. Powder rained down upon their feet. Dark eyes upon Martin's, Douglas tilted the wrist, angled that hand palm-upwards. Martin's hands were large for his frame, capable, confident on GERT-I's yoke even when the rest of him wasn't. Douglas pressed an open-mouth kiss to his palm. It had the zing of sour apple. Something clattered to the work top behind Martin - the knife he'd been using. Douglas carefully unfurled the fingers - long, slightly callused. He swept his tongue over the glob of Nutella.

"Sweet."

"Uhhn."

Douglas drew the Nutellest finger - the one Martin had clearly jammed knuckle-deep into the jar - into his mouth. He sucked. Martin grabbed onto his shoulder and made that funny little noise that made Douglas think of foxes the first time he pulled it from Martin's throat. With his free hand, Douglas wrapped his arm around Martin and drew him in. Later, they'd find a perfect, caveman-style flour paste handprint on the back of Martin's shirt.

"My dear, your hands are simply indescribable," Douglas said.

"I love _yours_. Don't you know I've been watching you for thirty minutes?"

Douglas pulled him flush and kissed him. Martin made a little noise and curled up his fingers at Douglas's throat, as if he didn't know what to do with his hands. He left a smear of Nutella.

"D-do you," Martin gasped in the voice Douglas had learned was his nervous-over-initiating-sex voice. It was almost as good as his shall-I-get-in-my-knees eyes. "I mean, you don't have to finish those pastries now, do you?"

Douglas wiped the Nutella away and then sucked the residue from his fingertip. "I don't know, why? Did you have some plans for this evening?"

"_Douglas._"

"Ooh, say that again."

Martin wrapped his arms around Douglas' shoulders, standing on tiptoe so they were at even height. Douglas' powder-soft hands stole under his sweatshirt, kneading the muscles at the base of his spine.

"Darling." Martin's voice in his ear dropped to its most testosterone-infused pitch. "I want you to come to the bedroom and fuck me."

"Well gosh, Martin, I'm not sure you're being clear."

Martin shoved at his shoulders with the flat of his palms. "Oh, forget it! N-nevermind, I clearly had the wrong idea, so - so just - finish your - I'll just be -"

After the twenty-minute argument and the thirty minutes of aggressive foreplay (near-synonyms), the last, blue winter light shone on Martin face-down on their bed, Douglas kneeling over him. Martin was nude yet still ruffled, a combination so hilarious Douglas was glad he couldn't see his face as he sat astride Martin's thighs. He dragged the heel of his palms down Martin's back, up his spine. He could feel the muscles unclenching.

This had been a surprise, the angles and ridges of Martin under the plain and boxy uniform. He was bony in places, concave in others, _delicious _across the shoulders and down his biceps that Douglas massaged now.

"Any muscle twinges from lifting today?"

Martin shook his head. "I'm fine."

Douglas kneaded one arm all the way down to the wrist, fiddling with the maraca of bones there. Pilots were prone to carpal tunnel. He gently rounded his thumbs into the webbing between Martin's thumb and forefinger, as his second wife used to do for him. Those were odd muscles that gripped the yoke when you felt tense; you didn't notice the strain until end of day, when your hands and forearms ached.

"No one's ever done this for me before," Martin said. "A whole body massage, I mean. Other than someone I paid . . . wait, that sounds like a prostitute. I meant . . . you know what I meant."

Douglas kissed the back of his neck. "I know what you meant."

Douglas switched to the other arm. If Martin'd been a cat, he'd be purring. Feeling rather smug, Douglas nudged him over. Martin rolled onto his back. Douglas leaned down over his stirring erection and kissed him. Martin reached his spindly spider arm into the bedside table and fished out the lube.

"I want -?"

Douglas took the bottle and brushed his palm over Martin's upper thigh, nudging them open. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart."

Martin licked his lips. "Your fingers, first. In me, please. And then - you. I want you to fuck me then."

Feeling like a wolf in a fairy story, Douglas slicked his fingers and parted Martin's buttocks. Martin's hand wrapped around his free arm in a crushing grip as Douglas' fingers worked into his hole. Martin's head tossed on the pillow, gasping. Douglas could almost feel what he was searching for, but the angle -

"I need you to turn over, my dear, if you want a decent fingering," Douglas said.

Martin on his stomach now, Douglas kneeling behind him, his long legs brushing Douglas' thighs so when he gasps and bends his knees, his feet cross and press against Douglas' back. His hips rise off the mattress so Douglas has an even better angle to press deeper, hit that nub more true. He captures it between his fingertips like an olive in a martini, squeezes, and lets it flick away. Martin yelps.

"Stop! I'm going to - stop!"

"Did I hurt you?"

"No!" Martin turned over. He was red all over, sweaty, hair plastered to his face. He gasped and gulped. A long line of pearly fluid dripped from his cock to his stomach. He wiped it away self consciously with a trembling hand and fisted both in the sheets.

Well done, me, Douglas thought. He leaned down, covering his lover, and they kissed. Martin burrowed his fingers in his hair, tussling it, caressing and combing until his nails skritched the back of Douglas' neck. This was secretly the spot that could make Douglas roll over and twitch his hind leg, but he wasn't giving that up yet. Instead, he ground his cock into Martin's hip and kissed him while Martin's short nails at the back of his head drove him senseless.

"You're still wearing clothes - why are you wearing clothes?"

"I have no idea. Technical error."

Martin got his trousers off with his toes. The boy had hidden talents when he was sixty five percent to orgasm. His fingers fiddled with the buttons until they telepathically decided two was enough and Martin lifted the shirt over his head . And then Martin's hands were everywhere, his body, his face. Martin had a kind of intense eye contact when he got like this, when he flipped Douglas onto his back and kissed and touched him from head to waist and just stared at him as if to say, I don't know why you're here but I shall memorize this moment in case it's the last. For a boy who could ruin things with words, Martin knew when to shut up and let his body do the talking.

Eventually, he ran his hand over the head of Douglas' cock, smearing in the leaking fluid down the shaft.

"S'nice."

And then someone had the bottle of lube again and Martin was under him, and oh right, we were going to have sex. We _are_ having sex. We've been having sex all evening.

Their hands entwined on the pillow above Martin's head and they shouted when they came.

"You left the dough out."

Douglas snuffled up from his nap. He had been dreaming something about a tree he'd climbed as a child. "Won't go off." The tree had secret endless heights, reaching up into the sky, beyond the clouds.

Martin turned in his arms, nosing up into his chest. Douglas curled Martin's hand close to kiss the knuckles.

"Alarm."

"I'm not sleeping," he said.

"Just resting your eyes," Martin agreed, voice grumbly. "Carolyn will slaughter us."

Douglas sighed. It was cold out there. He reached out into _Viking Armageddon _and slapped the alarm clock into submission. It beeped. He tucked his arm back into warmth and Martin and post-sex cuddle. He pressed a kiss to the nearest bit of flesh that wasn't his. Probably an eyebrow. God, this man.

"Can't believe this is you after a shag," Martin said. "Positively cuddly."

Douglas hooked his thigh over Martin's hips and pulled him closer. He ran his hand down Martin's side, his flank, and squeezed his arse. Martin buried his fingers in his hair again, pulling the covers up deliciously high, and skritched that spot.

Wicked, wonderful hands.

hr

DVD Extra! How to make Kiflis!

They're not Polish, as far as I know, but my German family does make them every year. They're delightful sourdough squares filled with preserves, like tiny pies, and we eat them for breakfast on Christmas morning. Any flavor preserves will work, but don't use jam or jelly, as it's too runny and will cook out.

Line the cookie sheets in parchment paper or foil, as some juice will leak out. I *always* cut this recipe in half or less.

· 4 c. flour

· 2 c. margarine

· 4 egg yolks, slightly beaten (reserve egg whites)

· 1 c. sour cream

· Confectioner's sugar (optional)

Preheat oven to 400 F. In large bowl, cut flour and margarine with pastry blender (or 2 crossed forks) until crumbly. Stir in egg yolks and sour cream. Turn out on lightly floured surface and knead (adding flour to sticky spots) until dough is smooth and can be shaped into a ball. (Can be stored overnight.)

On lightly floured surface, roll out 1/4 of dough at a time until 1/8" think. Cut into 2"x2" squares. (I think it's easiest to put the squares on the cookie sheet before the next step.) Place 1/2 tsp of preserves in corner of each - don't overfill.

Dab opposite corner with egg white as "glue." Fold over each square to form a triangle, and press fork tines into met sides. Brush tops lightly with egg white.

Bake on greased cookie sheet (or parchment paper) 12 mins or until golden brown. Roll in confectioner's sugar (optional).

Makes 16 dozen.


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